


I'm Glad I Was Right About You

by ephemeryon



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:12:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeryon/pseuds/ephemeryon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically 2 pages of Gatsby text followed by 2 pages of smut. Nick has a thing for Gatsby; Gatsby notices and reciprocates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Glad I Was Right About You

At nine o’clock one morning late in July Gatsby’s gorgeous car lurched up the rocky drive to my door and gave out a burst of melody from its three noted horn. It was the first time he had called on me though I had gone to two of his parties, mounted in his hydroplane, and, at his urgent invitation, made frequent use of his beach.  
“Good morning, old sport. You’re having lunch with me today and I thought we’d ride up together.”  
He was balancing himself on the dashboard of his car with that resourcefulness of movement that is so peculiarly American—that comes, I suppose, with the absence of lifting work or rigid sitting in youth, and, even more, with the formless grace of our nervous, sporadic games. This quality was continually breaking through his punctilious manner in the shape of restlessness. He was never quite still; there was always a tapping foot somewhere or the impatient opening or closing of a hand.  
He saw me looking with admiration at his car.  
“It’s pretty, isn’t it, old sport.” He jumped off to give me a better view. “Haven’t you ever seen it before?”  
I’d seen it. Everybody had seen it. It was a rich cream color, bright with nickel, swollen here and there in its monstrous length with triumphant hatboxes and supper-boxes and tool-boxes, and terraced with a labyrinth of windshields that mirrored a dozen suns. Sitting down behind many layers of glass in a sort of green leather conservatory we started to town.  
I had talked with him perhaps half a dozen times in the past month and found, to my disappointment, that he had little to say. So my first impression, that he was a person of some undefined consequence, had gradually faded and he had become simply the proprietor of an elaborate roadhouse next door.  
And then came that disconcerting ride. We hadn’t reached West Egg Village when Gatsby began leaving his elegant sentences unfinished and slapping himself indecisively on the knee of his caramel-colored suit.  
“Look here, old sport,” he broke out surprisingly. “What’s your opinion of me anyhow?”  
A little overwhelmed I began the generalized evasions which that question deserves.  
“Well, I’m going to tell you something about my life,” he interrupted. “I don’t want you to get a wrong idea of me from all these stories you hear.”  
So he was aware of the bizarre accusations that flavored conversation in his halls.  
“I’ll tell you God’s truth.” His right hand suddenly ordered divine retribution to stand by. “I am the son of some wealthy people in the middle-west—all dead now. I was brought up in America but educated at Oxford because all my ancestors have been educated there for many years. It is a family tradition.”  
He looked at me sideways—and I knew why Jordan Baker had believed he was lying. He hurried the phrase “educated at Oxford,” or swallowed it or choked on it as though it had bothered him before. And with this doubt his whole statement fell to pieces and I wondered if there wasn’t something a little sinister about him after all.  
“What part of the middle-west?” I inquired casually.  
“San Francisco.”  
“I see.”  
“My family all died and I came into a good deal of money.”  
His voice was solemn as if the memory of that sudden extinction of a clan still haunted him. For a moment I suspected that he was pulling my leg but a glance at him convinced me otherwise.  
“After that I lived like a young rajah in all the capitals of Europe—Paris, Venice, Rome—collecting jewels, chiefly rubies, hunting big game, painting a little, things for myself only, and trying to forget something very sad that had happened to me long ago.”  
With an effort I managed to restrain my incredulous laughter. The very phrases were worn so threadbare that they evoked no image except that of a turbaned “character” leaking sawdust at every pore as he pursued a tiger through the Bois de Boulogne.  
“Then came the war, old sport. It was a great relief and I tried very hard to die but I seemed to bear an enchanted life. I accepted a commission as first lieutenant when it began. In the Argonne Forest I took two machine-gun detachments so far forward that there was a full half mile gap on either side of us where the infantry couldn’t advance. We stayed there for two days and two nights, a hundred and thirty men with sixteen Lewis guns, and when the infantry came up at last they found the insignia of three German divisions among the piles of the dead. I was promoted to be a major and every Allied government gave me a decoration—even Montenegro, little Montenegro down on the Adriatic Sea!”  
Little Montenegro! He lifted up the words and nodded at them—with his smile. The smile comprehended Montenegro’s troubled history and sympathized with the brave struggles of the Montenegrin people. It appreciated fully the chain of national circumstances which had elicited this tribute from Montenegro’s warm little heart. My incredulity was submerged in fascination now; it was like skimming hastily through a dozen magazines.  
He reached in his pocket and a piece of metal, slung on a ribbon, fell into my palm.  
“That’s the one from Montenegro.”  
To my astonishment the thing had an authentic look. Orderi di Danilo, ran the circular legend. Montenegro, Nicolas Rex.  
“Turn it.”  
Major Jay Gatsby, I read, For Valour Extraordinary.  
“Here’s another thing I always carry. A souvenir of Oxford days. It was taken in Trinity Quad—the man on my left is now Earl of Doncaster.”  
It was a photograph of half a dozen young men in blazers loafing in an archway through which there were visible a host of spires. There was Gatsby, looking a little, not much, younger—with a cricket bat in his hand.  
Then it was all true. I saw the skins of tigers flaming in his palace on the Grand Canal; I saw him opening a chest of rubies to ease, with their crimson-lighted depths, the gnawings of his broken heart.

******************************

We ended up eating at some absurdly fancy French place. The columns and floor were marble and the curtains looked to be made of velvet. We ate on a balcony overlooking the bottom portion of the restaurant in all its grandeur, the fountain splashing and huge planters filled with flowers throughout.  
Gatsby insisted I try the roast duck, which he said he ordered every time he came here. It was exquisite, and terribly expensive. Gatsby said it was his treat, and I have to admit I didn’t protest as much as I should have, since I didn’t have the money for it anyway.  
He told me more tales about the war, and his traipsing about Europe, and everything else. I found myself alternately believing him completely and dismissing it all; still, I listened eagerly, because in any case Gatsby was a great storyteller and my life had never been as exciting in reality or fiction.  
When the meal was over he took me back in his car and I expected him to leave me at home. Instead he parked in his huge circular driveway and killed the engine.  
“I wonder if I’m right about you, old sport,” he said softly, unexpectedly.  
“Right about, what, that is?” I asked.  
“Oh, nothing at all, or maybe something.” He followed that confusing statement with, “But would you like some tea?”  
“Oh, I suppose so,” I said, because even though it seemed a bit odd, I didn’t want to be rude after all. He led me into his foyer, and I expected us to enter the parlor, but instead he took me to one of the spacious bedrooms. This was getting stranger still, but I didn’t protest.  
He walked over to the sitting area of the room and sat on one of the couches, indicating that I do the same. A servant came and he ordered tea for us, which the servant promptly returned with.  
“So, Nick,” Gatsby said, leaning back on the couch with his tea, “I was saying.” He paused lengthily after that.  
“Um, yes, you were saying?” I asked. Maybe he _was_ a bit mentally unstable.  
“Have you ever been with a woman, Nick?” Gatsby asked, tilting his head inquisitively. “I’m not quite sure what you mean—” I started, flustered.  
“No, have you ever _been_ with a woman?” Gatsby asked. “Made love to her?”  
I choked on my tea, coughed and sputtered a bit. “Well, I’m not really sure what that is to you, and quite frankly—”  
“Then, have you ever been with a _man_?” Gatsby asked next.  
“Why, that’s quite, that’s quite—illegal! Isn’t it? Who would even—who would even suggest such a thing?”  
“You think you hide it so well,” he said, smirking a bit.  
“I’m not sure I have any idea what you’re talking about, and honestly, I think I’m done with this conversation, and your accusations,” I sputtered. Who was he to make presumptions about me, and assume he knew what kind of person I was?  
I set down my teacup and started picking up my jacket, but before I could, Gatsby closed the space between us and put his mouth to mine.  
 _Oh_ , I thought. _Oh, he didn’t want to arrest me, he was—oh._ Gatsby deepened the kiss, moving our lips together, moving his body closer to mine. I found myself responding, bringing my hands to him, wanting. I knew it was wrong, but I didn’t much care right then, because it was Gatsby after all, and he of all people wanted me.  
“Mm,” Gatsby said. “So have you, then? You’re not a total novice.”  
“Ah, um, short fling in university,” I admitted. “But nothing important.”  
“You’ve always known, then? But before we talk, let’s move over here.” He grabbed my hands and led me over to his bed, pushing me down on it.  
“How do you like it?” he asked, laying down beside me.  
“Um, well, I like to be the…receiving…one,” I said.  
“Mmhm, you looked like it,” Gatsby said, kissing my neck, my shoulder.  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.  
“Nothing, nothing at all,” he said. “We need to get rid of some of these clothes, though.”  
I obliged, taking off my shirt, then pants, and finally briefs, watching as Gatsby did the same. His body was as beautiful as his face, fit and healthy with a little tan.  
He went back to kissing me, and then our dicks were rubbing against each other, making me sigh with pleasure.  
Gatsby went over to the side table and produced some oily stuff. He rubbed some on his fingers and stroked me.  
He put one finger in at first, then two, then three, and pushed up and stroked, causing me to arch my back and moan.  
“Ah, that’s…” I started, and he did it again, causing me to cry out once more, gripping the sheets.  
“You like that, don’t you?” he asked, and I just nodded, to which he chuckled. “Never would’ve guessed you were dirty like that, Nick.”  
“I never would’ve guessed you were—well.”  
“Guess we’re both just full of surprises then.”  
Then he put some of the stuff on his dick and slowly pushed in.  
“It’s been a while for you, hasn’t it?” he asked, to which I nodded. He went even slower, until I was begging for it and he was clearly wanting it too.  
“Can I move?” he asked once he was in, to which I nodded. He started thrusting in and out, hitting _there_ each time, moaning himself, and I stroked myself in time to his thrusts.  
“Feel…so good,” he said, groaning. I just moaned in reply.  
Before long I felt the pleasure building to a peak, his thrusts combined with my touching overwhelming me. I came on my stomach, the pleasure exploding from me, and Gatsby came shortly after.  
When it was all over he lay beside me, stroking my face. “I’m glad I was right about you,” he said.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third or fourth time I've attempted to write this...it's still not great, but it's the best I can do for now!


End file.
